Untitled 1
by spheeris1
Summary: One-shot :: Ashley POV :: Sex is there, but more in talk than deed. A sliver of angst. :: An idea popped into my head, so I wrote it.


How does anyone end up doing this kind of thing?

Is it because someone touched you in all the wrong ways? Did you get kicked out because you like curves instead of arrows? Are you a refugee of the streets? Can the bright lights of a jail-cell reveal marks upon your arms, too? Marks on your arms, lines around your eyes...

Who made you this way anyhow?

**oOoOoOo**

There are tricks to getting by and you've learned them all.  
What doors open first and what doors shut last, the sound of buyers on the stairs, the rattle of locks and the shattering of glass - you know all these tricks of this particular trade.

Just like any other story, the first time is the hardest.

Just like any other story, it is not about love.

For you, it is about desperation. For them, it is about shame.

There are tricks, though. And you know them all. You've got them tattooed onto your brain. You've got the bruises to prove what you have learned.  
A nick near your vein. A wound against your thigh. A blemish on your soul.

**oOoOoOo**

She's young and unexpected and you don't know how she found out about you.  
Or this place. Or this side of town.

She's young and you feel so damn old.

And surely there are better choices, better options. Surely there is someone better for this girl and her broken-down longings. Surely there is someone out there, loving this girl and wanting this girl.

But you remind yourself that this is not about love.  
It's about all the things we tell ourselves we cannot have, so we take it in shadow and lie about it the next day.

This is affection on the run.

This is desire on sale.

**oOoOoOo**

Don't ask too many questions, but make eye contact.

"So, what do you want to do?"

You can be nice, but you have to be blunt. Time is money, after all.

"You've got me for one hour and the clock is ticking..."

Give them what they want, always give them what they want and make them want it again. Walk the fine line between intimate and anonymous.  
Kiss them, but don't get caught up.

"Anything you'd like, sweetheart... Anything at all."

This girl with her knock-out blue eyes decides to leap forward and you don't catch her, you just become the ground for her to land on.

**oOoOoOo**

You've been paid to fuck. You've been paid to bend over and to strain muscles. You've been paid to lay down and keep quiet. You've been paid to stay on your knees and you've been paid to lean against these dirty walls.

You've taken a hit or two.  
You've had your wrists tied up too tightly.  
You've thought about disappearing - bleaching your hair and getting contacts and changing your name.

But you've never had to sit here, naked, as lips trail along the outside of one of your breasts and as a hand curls around your hip and as this girl pays for all of your time.

She sighs when you touch her. She sighs when she touches you. She sighs and expresses her need so silently, so mutely, that you think it does not ever truly happen.  
But there is a warm wetness that presses against you, always a reminder, and then you are doing what you are used to again.

Doing what you are supposed to be doing again.

**oOoOoOo**

She's funny and strange and her body is on that bed before you have even shut the door and turned the lock.

And she talks.  
God, does she talk and talk and talk.

Or maybe she doesn't talk that much, but you are used to certain words and those are the very words she never says.

"And... and they just... gave the... gave the fucking... fuck, oh **god**... ahhh... fucking job to that **bitch**... that stupid bitch from Baltimore... or wherever or... oh Jesus Christ, yes, yes, **fuck**..."

Some of the words are the same, but it is the way she says them. She says them like they are meant to be said, like a surprise instead of a given.  
And she comes down differently, too. She comes with a shudder and one of those sighs and an exhale that exposes her ribs for a seconds on end.

She's funny and strange and her fingers grip your forearm as you start to get off of her.

"How do you know every place inside of me?" She whispers and does not look at you and won't let you go just yet.

What's even more amusing is that you are no longer sure of the answer to that question.

**oOoOoOo**

You think that if the world suddenly shifted and everyone was thrust into alternate lives, you'd be the client and she'd be the whore.

You think that if the world was really all wine and roses, you'd be eleven years old and all dreams would still be possible.

You think that if the world was less about hiding and more about showing, you'd find your mouth pressed to hers like you were meant to be there.

The world owes you nothing, though. All these debts are just in your imagination.

**oOoOoOo**

One day, you recognize her.

Her face on the television screen, standing beside some man - who is her father - and smiling for cameras and holding out a hand for everyone to gawk at.

A ring on her finger. A promise made.

One day, you see who she is and who she belongs to and where she comes from. It's not that she is famous, but her father is. It's not that she is important, but her family is.  
And where they go, she goes.

Of course, they don't know about you.

Of course, she doesn't know about you either.

One day, you know her name. And she stops coming by. And you move on.

**oOoOoOo**

For a second, you squint and watch the world spin in the opposite direction and Spencer Carlin is in your arms and you don't let go.

For a second, Ashley Davies is someone else.

**oOoOoOo**

**END**


End file.
